


Evard Had the Right Idea

by MindfulWrath



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Embarrassment, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8286295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: Taako casts a tentacle spell and has sexy times while thinking about death, which is not as goth as it sounds.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Sam told me there wasn't any Adventure Zone porn, and I bravely stood up and said "I will take it! I will take the ring to Mordor!" And I immediately regret it, but here we are.

Taako has been in need of some truly dedicated _me-time,_ and not for the reasons the others think. He is content to let them think whatever they like, because odds are it's so far off the mark as to be nearly humorous. Even if one of them _did_ hit upon the truth accidentally, the other would undoubtedly laugh it off as a joke.

Gods forbid they should find out about this me-time. He'd never live it down. Not that it was entirely shameful, but knowing Merle and Magnus, he'd never hear the end of it. Everyone has their secrets, and this one is Taako's.

His room is smallish and cluttered—he has a fondness for too many things, glitter and shine and color. He hangs up his coat and his hat, slips off his shoes at the door, grey with moon dust. He's had the spell ready since morning, and he's been mulling it over in the back of his mind ever since, quite often having to refocus himself to keep from thinking about it too much. He doesn't like how it makes him blush and squirm in front of the others. When he's alone, though, blushing and squirming is par for the course.

Taako undresses carefully, as though this is all perfectly normal. He folds his clothes and sets them aside—no need to rumple them unnecessarily, Gods know they get enough of that out in the field. The air is cool on his skin, prickling slightly. There's an odd sort of vulnerability in nakedness, a smallness like a crustacean slid out of its shell.

With a moment's concentration, he casts the spell. It flits from his fingers with a sparkle and a hiss, and from the pink throw rug erupts a forest of black tentacles, flailing and slimy.

"All right, boys, easy now," he said, approaching with a hand outstretched, like he would a skittish horse. At his touch, the flailing calms to a gentle waving, like seaweed in the ocean. The tendrils are curious things, rubbery and slick, and they greet him with blind interest. Carefully, he steps amongst them.

At first they are shy, perhaps having forgotten him. They touch his shoulders, his arms. One wraps around his leg carefully, sneaking its way upward as though expecting to be reprimanded. One takes his wrist. He coos at them, encouraging. One takes him around the waist like a dancer at a ball and sweeps him off his feet.

They remember him now. They're cool to the touch, alive but not at all human. The touch of them sends shivers up his spine, makes his skin rise up in goosebumps. That tendril around his leg is climbing him like a snake, to his knee, his thigh, his hip. The others are growing bolder, now, taking his wrists and arms and ankles. One wriggles into his hair, pulling it from its braid and tangling in it. They taste his skin like multitudinous tongues, testing, teasing, gentle but firm. He shuts his eyes and focuses on breathing.

The one that took the initiative with his leg has found his entrance and is testing it, probing slowly and carefully. It's terribly thin at its tip, thinner than his pinky finger, and it finds its way into him with little trouble. He twitches anyway, at the cold of it, the physical touch. The others tighten their grip, whether to keep from dropping him or to restrain him, he doesn't know. The tendril presses in, slowly, slowly, taking its time to keep from hurting him. It's unbearable, and he wriggles and whines and gets nowhere. He bites his lip to keep from crying aloud. There's something heavy and cool on his chest, jostled by his wriggling, and distantly he realizes he forgot to take off his stone of far-speech. It bounces on his sternum when he jerks at the cold touch of a tentacle curling around his cock, and he promptly forgets about it.

It's not the first time he's done this, but it's the first time he's done it with a name on his lips, honey-sweet and glistening like forbidden fruit. As the tendril slides into him, slowly, slowly, as his breath comes shorter and shorter, it starts to drip from his lips. The tentacles become hands, caressing, warm. There are lips on his neck, tongue and teeth testing the supple skin, and the smell of bone and dust and curry. He is alone here, he is so alone, and if he shuts his eyes and lets himself _pretend. . . ._

 _"Kravitz,"_ he whispers, and the word sends a jolt of electricity down his spine, makes his skin flush hot and sweaty. He gasps, shudders—hands, lips, tongue, teeth, bone and dust and curry—and it's so _good,_ it's so unbearably _good,_ he can't stand to leave off after just one hit.

 _"Kravitz,"_ he says again, louder. The large tendril has spread him aching wide, hot and wet and squirming, and one is crawling around his neck and more are drawing him out, spread-eagled. He can't bite back the whimper, the yelp, the helpless breath that sparkles in his lungs, under his skin. His head falls back of its own accord, his eyelids fluttering, and he squirms. He needs more, so much more, and he needs it _now_ and he needs it rough and desperate and careless.

He opens his mouth to speak the name a third time, to cry it out into the silence of his room, but all he gets is a tendril between his teeth that forces its way into his mouth, tasting of salt and spirits, and all he can do is choke on it, suckle it, lathe it with his tongue—

Hands, lips, tongue, teeth, bone and dust and curry. How would he grip Taako's hair, how would he murmur and moan, praising him, wanting him, _needing_ him—

The tentacle is fucking him in earnest now, hard and fast and deep, and the others are touching him all over, every inch of naked skin, and it's so much, it's _too_ much, if there weren't a tentacle in his mouth to muffle him he'd be screaming loud enough to wake the whole campus. He can feel Kravitz's teeth in his neck, taste his cock in his mouth, feel his hands on his skin, and _Gods_ it's good, it would be so good, they would be _so good_ together, he can't take it, he can't hold it back any longer.

With a series of full-body convulsions, he cums like he hasn't in years, wracked by release so intense he can't breathe, twitching in his net of tentacles. The tears come immediately, fountaining from the burst core of him, and he's sobbing, sweat-drenched and dripping. There's an ache in him so big and so hollow he feels like he's imploding, he feels like something in him is ripping apart, because _Gods,_ he's so alone, he's so _empty—_

There's a sound like tearing silk, a flash of light through eyelids squeezed shut.

"Taako, I heard you call, are you—"

Kravitz stops. For ten seconds Kravitz says nothing.

"What the _fuck?"_ says Kravitz.

Taako manages to pry open his eyes, still blurred with tears. The tentacle slips out of his mouth, wet and limp. He smiles, too blasted with afterglow and strange emotion to feel properly mortified. He disentangles one hand from the tentacles and flicks it in a lazy wave.

"Hail and well met, my dude," he says weakly.

Kravitz stares at him.

"Taako, what the _fuck?"_ he says.


End file.
